Realisation
by free-as-can-be
Summary: Stan Marsh contemplates normality in South Park.
1. Chapter 1

Realisation

I never thought I was a selfish guy. I cared for people, and animals, and was willing to share if needs be. I had friends, a girlfriend (or ex, depending what day of the week it was), a family that cared about me, a warm house, encouraging and loving parents. Sounds perfect, right? I thought so too. But you forget to take into consideration that I live in South Park, Colorado. South Park, home of some of the sleaziest, mentally unstable and downright weird people you will possibly ever meet. This little town has seen more than its fair share of deaths, violence and sexual misconduct. But I thought I could separate myself from these acts, be a part of the town, and yet still seem to be on the outside looking in.

Oh, how wrong I was.

This was one of the hardest lessons I think I've ever had to learn: no matter how much you distance yourself from the crowd, we all get sucked in eventually. It might not be you directly; it could be your neighbour, your sister, your mom, or your friends. Everyone is affected somehow, no exceptions, no matter how much you want to deny it. And admitting this was the hardest thing for me to do. I thought I was normal, but now I know there's no such thing as normal here. You're weird, or you're dead, those are your only options.

And that just sucks ass.


	2. Chapter 2

Realisation 2

I guess I had known that it would never last. You can only keep your head in the sand for so long. If you keep your eyes closed to the bad things in life, they have a tendency of sneaking up on you when you least suspect it. This was what happened to me one day, mid-winter, on my way to school. I was stood on my own at the bus stop, waiting for the crazy bus driver to come and take me and my friends to school. Except she hadn't arrived yet, and neither had my friends. So, standing there, staring blankly at a spot across the road from me, I to got thinking. To be honest, I don't get to think uninterrupted much. Between school, home life and my friends, I'm barely alone long enough for me to think deeply. And today was the day I wished I hadn't had the time at all.

I thought about the little Jewish boy, my best friend in the entire world, Kyle Broflovski. I say little, as he had a small frame, only reaching 5'6". We'd learnt long ago not to tease him about his shortness, as that little scrawny guy could really pack a punch. Anyway, he and I had been inseparable for years. Our friendship had stood the test of time. Maybe if I was really his best friend, I would have noticed something sooner. I don't know why it had taken so long, but something about my best friend dragged me from my ringside seats, overlooking the evil in our town, to centre stage. This is when I realised I could no longer be the bystander, I was involved. And that scared the hell outta me. I wanted to be a normal guy, reach 18 and hightail it outta here. I wanted this so badly, I ignored the problem, pretended it wasn't there, and I paid dearly for it, in the end.

Anyway, I'm sure you want to know what I'm talking about, hm? Sorry, I sometimes have a habit of letting my thoughts run away from me. I'll get back to Kyle now. Ok, so, this guy was small, I think you get the picture? He was the only Jewish kid in our class, hell; his family is the only Jewish family in town. He had a younger adopted brother called Ike, a father called Gerald, and one bitchy mother named Sheila. Cartman even made up a song about her once, though I can't seem to recall how that goes....

Anyway, you should really pay attention to everything I say about Sheila Broflovski, because it will be important later on. This woman is rude, self-important, and the pushiest woman who has EVER walked this earth. Only the best is good enough, and only the best is acceptable. I urge you to remember these facts for later on.

I guess I first got an inkling that something was up when we were in the 9th grade. We had just gotten a Physics test back, and the whole class had done horribly. Predictably, Kyle had gotten the highest grade in the class, a B+. I had gone to congratulate him, when I saw his face. He was looking at the test with an expression of pure fear on his face. His hands were shaking a little, and he had gone paler than I had ever seen him go. I was concerned about my friend, and I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Dude, are you ok?"

Just the gesture of my hand caused a reaction I had not been expecting. His whole body tensed under my hand. His fists clenched, and he began shaking more. He's closed his eyes really tight, and a bead of sweat trickled down his face. I stared at him in shock. There was something wrong with Kyle.

Very wrong.

The whole display ended quite quickly. Kyle relaxed all his muscles and opened his eyes. He turned to me, and offered me a grin.

"Oh, yeah dude, I'm fine. Just that my mom is gonna kill me when she finds out!"

I continued staring at my best friend. He had gone from tense and afraid to cheery and grinning? What the hell was going on?

And that, right there, was where I should have started suspecting something. But I refused to become a part of the blathering idiots that made up this town, all with some big problem to deal with. I wanted to be the normal outsider, with friends who _don't_ react the way Kyle just did. So I let it go, forced myself to face the board. Surely it couldn't have been that bad, if Kyle wasn't telling me about it? It'll be ok, right?

Stan Marsh, you are an idiot.

You could not have _been_ more wrong.

And in the end, your unbelievably selfish and stupidly _wrong_ behaviour cost you your best friend. And you, you unbelievable son of a bitch, deserve it.

I guess, in self-defence, this act could have been nothing. I know, highly unlikely, but this is what convinced me that he was fine, and that I could just forget it ever happened. So I did. Not.

Anyway, Kyle wasn't in the next day; he was off sick. I thought this was odd, considering he was fine the day before. The small voice in the back of my mind told me that his reaction and sudden illness were related, but I chose to ignore this voice. What did it know, anyway?

No, no matter how much I tried to forget this incident, my stupid brain kept replaying it over and over again in my mind. And brought up other occasions where Kyle's behaviour had left me confused, and mildly concerned. But not enough to do something about it. Oh no.

Enough with the pity party I appear to be throwing for myself; this is about Kyle.

There was this time in kindergarten, that I hadn't questioned back then (ooh, what a surprise. Damn...sorry) that would certainly have me raise eyebrows right now. We had just convinced Trent Boyett that we could put out a fire, if he started one for us. It had, predictably, gotten out of control, and then it came to what we were going to do. None of us really wanted to take the blame for this, as I don't suppose anyone really would. Kyle's reaction, if I heard it from a kindergartener now, would certainly ring a few alarm bells

'My mom can't find out about this. She'd _break my legs._'

Sounds oddly specific for a 5 year-old, don't you think? This is, of course, not evidence enough on its own, but certainly helps build the case I'm soon to make.

Next point came about 4 years later. We had just acquired weapons, and were playing ninja. Everything was fine at first, until Kenny threw a ninja star that got Butters in the eye. We'd all been freaking out, of course, but Kyle's reaction was worse than ours. Cartman had suggested that we kill Butters and bury him in Kyle's back yard. I'd told him his plan was stupid, but Kyle had agreed with Cartman. This was weird enough on its own, without what came next. I had, obviously, voiced my disbelief. He had told me, fear lacing his words:

'Dude, you don't understand what my mom would _do_ to me if she found out I'd been playing with weapons.'

Could have been an idle threat, grounding, even getting yelled at. But it sounds much more serious than any of these punishments, doesn't it?

And the last piece of evidence is the most condemning of all.

As I have previously mentioned, me and Kyle were pretty close, and we had been for a while. You'll notice the past tense when I mention him, and I assure you, that will be explained in due course.

Anyway, we were close, so I would often invite him around to my house to sleep over. Sounds totally gay, but it wasn't. All we did was play video games, eat junk food and stay up all night. I had left Kyle to get changed into his sleeping stuff (or PJs, whatever) in my room, whilst I went to go and do...something else. The minor details are not what are important right now. What's important is what I saw.

I peeked around my bedroom door, and saw that he was still getting changed. I was about to close the door again, when I froze. My heart sank, my eyes widened, and my throat constricted. Kyle was stood in my room, half naked. All he had on was a pair of plain white briefs.

Yes, I do know how this sounds. Incredibly super fuckin' gay. I don't even care about that right now. What I saw that day is way more important than rumours about my sexuality. That's how serious this is.

Anyway, I was frozen to the spot, staring at my friend, who was checking his appearance in the mirror. His hat was on me bed beside him. He never took it off, not even when he slept. And I could see why.

I shall start at the top, and work my way down, ok? Brace yourselves.

His hair, curly and red, was normally concealed under his lime green hat. That hat now lying on my bed, it revealed the red hair, and what the red hair was covering. Blood had congealed at the back of his head, poor stitches visible where chunks of hair were missing. Bruising stood stark purple against the paleness of his neck. His back looked like a finger painting down by a 3 year-old. Messily, the bruises and cuts covered his back, leaving no more than a few very small patches of pale skin. My horrified eyes trailed down past his ribs (I could practically _count _every single one), past his hips to his thighs. They had burns, cuts and bruises covering them, again leaving barely any space for the pale skin he was meant to have. Glancing in the mirror opposite him, the front of his body was little better than the back. Bruises, burns and cuts adorned him, even his face. I was startled for a second, wondering how in the hell anyone had missed _that._ After glancing around him a little, I found concealer and more skin toned make-up. Ah. _That _was how.

He was applying more make-up to the slightly faded bruises on his face, and hadn't noticed me, and I intended to keep it that way. I quietly slid from my door, and made my way downstairs. I waited for him to come down, and when he did, I acted like I hadn't seen anything. What else was I supposed to do?! Confront him?! Then what would I say?!?!

'oh, hey dude, you got some major bruises there, what's up?'?!?! I think _not._

So I left it. He never said a word, and neither did I. This silence seemed to work for us both, as Kyle acted the way he always did, and I acted no different. And this was the biggest mistake I think I have ever made in my life.

It happened when we were both 15 years old. 15 years, that's no age to go. But go he did, and it was all because of _her_.

No one really knows what happened that night. Some say that Kyle had brought home an "unsatisfactory" school report; others say Mrs Broflovski was drunk. Yet others say she was on her Jew-bitch period (three guesses who that was...). Regardless of what people thought, there was no debate on the next event in this story. So, Mrs Broflovski, in a rage for whatever reason, found her son, Kyle, and.....well, here is the hard part. I don't like to talk about this, as you can understand, but if I've come this far, I might as well finish. That night, mid-winter, a year ago from today, was the day that Mrs Broflovski....killed her only biological son, Kyle Broflovski. My best friend, Kyle, the guy I had had so many adventures with, was dead.

_All because I kept my goddamned mouth shut!!_

When they...when they, uh, found...him, he was lying in a pool of his own, uh, blood. His skull had been crushed with a, ah, with a bat of some sort. He'd suffered severe head wounds, and haemorrhaged before he was found, 3 hours later, by his father and adopted brother. By which time it was, of course, too late. He was gone. And no amount of regretful silence and sobbing would ever bring him back. He was dead, because of his silence, and my own goddamned selfish attempts at remaining normal. No _normal_ kid has a friend who had the tar beaten out of him, no _normal _kid would have kept silent under these circumstances. No _fucking normal _kid would have let his best friend die, just to hold on to some normality that he's not even sure he should possess.

I lost my best friend in the pursuit of normality that I had no right in possessing.

You may hate me now, but you know what? You can't hate me nearly as much as I hate myself.

It's just impossible.


End file.
